CRUMPLED GHOST
Exhausted by the back of things, that there is a back to composure — still, falseness is enticing. The everyday is compelling, sure. But every day (my bedroom, the library, the shop) is contracted — I am obliged not to walk into your house, to test (by lying there) the space beneath your bed, the rough frost in your freezer, or your browser tab for habits. Like I said, resisting is exhausting. Layers of choices make the face of construction, in sight and hidden. The bare facts are probably enough, but then — a par-demolition on your street exposes internal walls. A riot of voices are thrust in the open, exposing private choices: eggshell or ecru, honey? I want to be granted a permit for agency. I want to get about, slewing excess from knowing until its trueface is found, until the thing, the believed in, becomes a crumpled ghost in space.